Well, that was a craphouse week and no mistake. Had a good session in Brighton with the Lighthouse, but after that I descended into the feverish depths of lurgy that's been doing the rounds. Still managed to get some work done by consuming box after box of Olbus pastilles and stuffing tissues up my nose, but it's been most unpleasant. Seem to be feeling a little better, despite a cough that would make a bronchial swan wince. Hoping I'm on the up-slope.
Turns out the documentary I went into Edinburgh for last week is to be screened on BBC2 between Christmas and New Year. It's called The Perfect Detective and transmits on December 29th, I think. I burbled about Inspector Morse, but have no idea if my words [and terrifying visage] will make it on screen. More likely I'll be lining the cutting room floor of some edit suite soon, like the leavings of an over-excited budgie after too many shocks and scares.
Not much else to report. The freelance world is winding down for Christmas, but I've got a meeting on Tuesday [no agenda, just a general chat] and my first academic lunch on Thursday. I don't start at Napier until January but have now signed my contract. Life as a part-time lecturer beckons, but I've no plans to buy a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. Did watch The Paper Chase on DVD - a cracking little film, it fit nicely in our 70s season.
Next on the pile to watch is Three Days of the Condor, another film from the decade that taste forgot but during which cinema flourished. Then maybe another dash of Dirty Harry in anticipation of Gran Torino. Ahh, Clint - some old, so grizzled and so bloody talented. Give that man another Oscar, and tell Sean Penn to relax.